The Life I Left Behind
by WeLonelyOldSouls
Summary: Somehow, our pasts never quite leave us alone. Instead, they leave a trail that bleeds and oozes into our future. Somethings, we can't escape. Some things, we are born to face. And some, even track us down, no matter if we are immortal ferrymen, or not. Slow start Post PoC 3 WillXElizabeth ON INDEFINITE HIATUS
1. Coals

The first I knew of the sea was the smell. It overpowered even the regular stench of London. You began to smell it Fourth, and it got progressively worse as you approached Wharf street. Curse my master for not warning me! He probably got some sense of pleasure, sending me to pick up his cargo. I blamed it on the sailors, those poor souls, born into a slavery of sorts to the family business, struggling to keep afloat. I stepped onto the docks, dodging the docking official with a stern glare. I stepped half down one dock before stopping. Was there **any** order to the mess?

"Oi! lad, what'chu here for?" A rough sailor belted out, pausing in tying his ship ashore.

"Cargo retrieval, from the Alexandra." I called back as he tied off the line.

"Three docks starboard." He growled, nodding to left. I nodded, momentarily wondering as to what the devil starboard was, before chiding myself and carrying on. Three docks down, moored a ship that I guess looked impressive. It had three masts, and many canon ports, but they all had those. I don't know, some could call it a beauty, but I didn't see it. An official of some sort stood by the offloading space, a hoist pulling more boxes and barrels down.

"Excuse me, is this the drop off for the Alexandra?" I asked.

"Yes. And you are?" He eyed me with obvious disdain. I didn't look like much, covered in soot, clothes torn and mended. "Well?" he demanded.

"Right, Apprentice Conway, to Master Powell. He took over after Turner left." I said.

"I see. Mr. Powell's packages?" He instructed to a young boy, likely a deckhand or cabin boy, I mused. The boy looked nervous and unsure, but scampered over the pile and turned up with a small bag.

"Is that all?" The official demanded sharply. The boy gave a meek eep and vanished back into the mess, pulling out a long and thin tube heavily sealed at both ends.

"Yes, master." He squeaked, shuffling back to his post behind the man.

"You'll tell him the rest will be delivered by morning, and that the captain sends his apologies for any trouble."

"Is there a reason for the delay?" I asked, knowing Powell would want a full explanation.

"Watch your tongue! If you must know, the ships hoist is broken, so progress is halved." He said snootily, eyes narrowing. "Off with you, rat. Back to your coal mines." He sneered. I growled at him and snatched the bag and tube. The tube was filled with a liquid of some type, while the bag seemed to be material samples. Together they weighed a ton, and were entirely unwieldy. The bag dug into my back when I tried to wear it over my shoulder, and the tube was too long to carry with one hand. Still, I somehow managed to get find my way back to his shop without getting lost or robbed.

"Boy, that you?" He bellowed from the back room, the door propped open. Heat rolled out from the forge.

"Yes. They gave me a package and a tube." I called back, setting the duo down behind the counter.

"Then they shortchanged you, and you lost me most of my order! I'll have your hide!" He shouted. I rolled my eyes.

"Their hoist is broke, so the rest'll be in tomorrow. Captain gives you his apologies." I said.

"Oh." He grunted. "Then bring the bag in here." He said from the doorway. Master Powell wasn't too much to look at, hands calloused and burned. He had one eyebrow and three quarters a head of hair. He claims it was a forge misfire. Given his propensity for the drink, I think not. His clothes were in better shape than mine, or at least started in better condition. Sturdy, roughspun, he looked like any other blacksmith I supposed. I reheaved the bag onto my shoulder, groaning when it re dug into the same spot and reached for the tube.

"Not the blasting jelly!" he shouted, staying my hand. I left the tube and carried the bag in, rethinking my assumption towards his lack of hair. "Drop em over there." He said, pointing towards the dark side of the forge. "Now onto the bellows. Try to keep your timing steady today. We don't need another fire. The watch'll have my arse if we do that again." He grinned at me, a rare show of amusement or affection. "Course, Old lady Irming might deserve it, but mums the word." I coughed to cover my laugh and grabbed the heavy handle of the giant fan.

Old lady Irming was the hag who lived down the street and up a level. She had been cranky since her beloved husband had died. He died fourteen years ago under 'mysterious circumstances'. Nobody would say it, but we all believe she killed him. She hates everyone else, and always finds the time to throw things or insults at you if she spots you. Children loved to throw things at her until she caught someone one day. She strung him up by his ankles and proceeded to beat him. Then, she dropped him form her window. He broke his arm in three places. Nobody claimed him, and the word is he died later that month.

I pulled the top down with a heave, resting a moment before pushing it back up, stretching on my toes. Powell was working on a higher density steel something today, which required more heat than usual. Thus, harder work. Soon, his strikes, the forge's popping, and his curses blended together to form a pattern. Up, down, up, down, up, down. The afternoon slowly passed, parsed into evening. All the while I heaved on that bellows, and he banged on that steel. About the time the streetlamps began to be lit, Master Powell stepped back and wiped his face. His face was red and peeling from the heat, but any more and we would risk mistake.

"That's enough for now, boy. You can rest." I sagged down, staggering to the coal pile. He had already claimed the chair the crafty arse.

"We made quite some progress, didn't we? We should be done by mid-week next week. Just in time for the orders collection." That was another of Powells traits, he was a last minute, find-you-well-before-dawn-because-I-forgot-there-was-a-man-coming-to-get-a-rudder-support-today, kind of person. How he found me, I'd never know. "You can run along now. Your work for the day is done. You'll be here tomorrow, half past lampdark?"

"Yes, Master Powell. I'll be here." I promised, making my way exhaustedly from the forge. I shivered as I stepped out from the shop. It was only mid-September now, but winter already felt like it was creeping up. Coming from the hot forge, the brisk night air was chilling. Covered in sweat from the bellows-work, it cut right to the bone. I rubbed my arms and crept away from the light, making my way to my own home. Streetlights slowly became more and more scarce as I left the industrial side of town. Slowly, I arrived at ones that had been extinguished, or a rare few that never got lit. Across from a home bakers, and down behind a condemned glassmakers, laid my home. It was a small thing, built of scavenged materials, braced on a fallen beam from the glass makers. Yes, I was an orphan, an alley-rat. It held no shame, nor power for me. Powell either didn't know, or didn't care. It was home, and I was proud of it. So, when I arrived to find it ransacked, I wasn't happy.

There was a calling card, a warning, a sneer. Someone had rubbed red ochre onto the wall beside it. The Foxes. They were a small street gang, who believed they ruled a few streets. They took almost everything. The cloths I had gathered, the food stores I had saved. The few papers I had found or snuck out. The cutlery and other bits. They had the gall to steal from me. My fists tightened in my pants pockets. They would pay. It wasn't like I didn't know where they were. They were cocky, and arrogant. They called the upper level attic space of the joined homes their base. It was a foolish place to choose, no defenses besides the height. No escapes aside from the roof and the windows. They had boarded it up because the roofing supports weren't up to standard anymore, and the owners couldn't pay to have them reinforced. So, weak floor, no escapes, and no defenses. Childs play. Other than numbers, they had nothing. I ducked into the wreckage of my home, shimmied my way up the fallen beam. Up at the top were the emergency supplies, in case this happened. I grabbed the items and dropped back down. Since they had numbers, I would have to be careful. No one can take fifteen on one. Maybe two or three, but not fifteen.

The coast was clear. There were no guards on the roof. No scouts, no lookouts watching form the base. They were far too arrogant. It would cost them. I snuck over the tile, softly in the narrow moonlight. The windows were lit, the busted out skylights bright. It was like they were celebrating. I crept closer.

"Glad you recognized that blacksmith boy down at the docks! Yeah, great memory. It was too easy once we knew he was late at the forge. Yeah, the sucker. Maybe he'll starve, or just replace it all. If he replaces it all, we'll just take it again!" Voices rang out form the attic, celebrating their collection. I peered in. There looked to be about eight of them, one passed out from the wine they were sharing. Six boys, one girl, between the ages of fourteen and sixteen. They looked much like I did, ragged and dirty. They were gathered around a board on two barrels, a poor man's table. Most of my saved food was on said table. The rest I had to assume they ate. Most of my things were piled haphazardly in the corner, cloth tied around stuff to carry it better. From the skylight, I readied myself to drop in, but held back for a moment. Could I really kill these people? Weren't they just petty thieves? Did they really deserve death? A clink came from below me, out of my view. I circled around as one of them, one of the older boys, turned and shouted, "Oh shut it you! You're alive aren't you? You're lucky." It was a girl, a young one. She looked to be twelve or thirteen, too young for this. She was tied to a ring in the wall. She looked… She looked used. Abused. Ashamed. Young. She looked defeated, hazed under bruises and malnutrition. She was barely holding on. My resolve hardened. This wasn't about theft anymore. This was worse. Slavers in the making. They should be punished by the law, hung until death for their crimes. But, I couldn't trust the law here. If I could, they wouldn't exist here. I had to do the right thing.

My thrown knife hit the girl in the leg. The second hit the boy to her left, who was laughing at a joke one said as he reached for the wine bottle. Both of them looked at the weapons in shock, not moving or screaming. Just… looking. Someone shouted, and they saw me. A knife flew at me- missed. I dropped down from the roof. Five out of eight left. Three likely drunk. The odds were still against me, but it was passable. I dodged the first ones slash, and another thrown knife.

"You're going to pay!" The second shouted, lunging at me. I seized his wrist, stabbing the tender veins under it. He dropped the knife, I caught it. A slash and he wasn't a concern anymore. Four left. Two swung up in front of me, both unarmed. One went to tackle, the other swung for my face. I went down, tackled by one trying to dodge the other. He pinned me with his knees, sitting on my chest. His eyes were dulled by the wine, but he was still able to hit. My head ached under the rain of blows. A kick came from the other. I scrabbled for a knife, for anything. My head throbbed. I found a foot, drawing back for another kick. I yanked, sending him tumbling. Finally I picked up something. I stabbed it into my captor's leg. He reeled back as I sat up. The bellows do keep one in good shape. One of my forks was embedded in his thigh. The other was scrambling on the ground, wine and panic making him clumsy. I stepped on his fingers, felt them all break. I kicked the other elbow, hyperextended it. Shards of bone poked out of it. I reevaluated.

Two down from the start, knife wounds fatal if not treated properly. One unconscious from hitting the table. One gutted, possible still alive. One reeling from fork stabbing. One not a concern, passed out from broken bones. Two still standing. The leader, and he-who-was-asleep. Sleepyhead was next to attack, slicing at my shoulder with a long knife. I rolled under the blow, trying to avoid his swipes. I dove to grab my own dirk and knife, but he kicked them away. I stood, he shook the sleep from his head. Wonderful. He wised up, cautiously stepped forwards. I stepped back. He had good footwork. He probed with a slice; I leapt to the side, swinging a plate of food at him. He dodged the plate, and swept forwards. We were at an impasse. Well, almost. He could attack all day and night, I couldn't. If he got lucky once, I was down. Plus, I had to be at the forge by morning. I had to do something.

I circled around the table, eyes watching him for a move. He gave a few feints, probing for weakness. I was fluid. I lunged forwards to grab part of a bottle, something to fight with. He swept across my body. It was a calculated risk. The point skimmed my abdomen, but I got the bottle shard. His next slash came at my shoulder. I stepped into it, stabbing him with the bottle. The edged sank into his chest, but his dagger cut across my back. He was down, for good. One left. I turned, just to hear a dreaded click-click.

Of course he had a pistol. And a sword. The eldest, the one who shouted at the girl, still stood. It was only him and I. He had the advantage. His gun was level with my head.

"I'm impressed." He said. "You're quite something. I figured you'd be trouble, but I never thought you would do all this. You're not only a blacksmith apprentice, are you? You're more than that. Or, you were. Am I right? I'm assuming that you were once more. I moved here from the country, a small hamlet you've never heard of. My father sought work in the city. He then died. It was rather sudden. I was alone, free. There was nothing holding me back anymore. I looked around for something… fun. Then, I heard of a legend. A tale told by the petty gangs. A story of sorts, of a gang that operated out of a glass shop. One that was decimated by a fire. But, they told me it wasn't just any gang. Nor was it any fire. No, this group was special. They had among them many skilled members. People who could do anything. They ruled over almost half the city at their peak. They were fair, and mostly just. Somewhat kind, for a criminal gang. They told me, that the watch locked them in that glass store and burned it down. They said that one survived, that one lived through the fire. She wasn't the best of them, they said. No, she was average for the gang. But, she survived. Out of respect, they left this slice of town alone. They said that she killed any who moved in. So I thought to myself, that's free territory! I looked in on it. There was no group set up here, no protector watching out for these people. I built this little gang. Now you show up. Tell me; are you the one of legend? Did you survive that fire? Did you really give it all up?" He asked, gesturing with the pistol eagerly.

I motioned toward the intact wine bottle. "Go ahead. It's yours anyway." I drank.

"Well, I guess legends would spring up about us. We were after all, very successful. The legends likely embellish our skills. We were good, yes, but not amazing. Nothing supernatural. Yes, we all died in that fire. I don't know how it started, or if the doors or windows were locked. Hell, we'd have gone through the walls. Conspiracy? Karma? I don't know. All I do know is that I wasn't there. I was scouting out a job across town. Rival gang, rival group. You should know how it is. I returned, and it was gone. Ash, smoke in the wind. Nothing survived that blaze. Be it a sign or not that I was spared the blaze; I figured it was time to get out of the business. Our enemies would be moving in, and there was no way I could get enough people to hold our territory. And once we start losing it, they descend like sharks. Best to give it up before I lost my life. The pickings, the power, there are nights I still yearn for it. I still want that rush. But, I moved on. I found a teacher, set about learning a trade. I hadn't gone back until tonight. You see, we were different from you." I drank down the last swallow of the wine. "We didn't do slavery, or prostitution. We had standards." The boy looks impressed for a moment.

"You hold your head so high, that you never dipped that low. Think you're better than us. I can rebuild, there's no escape for you. I guess your master will have an opening tomorrow. Maybe I'll apply." He pulls the trigger on the pistol.

Click!

It's a dud shot. We both hold for a moment, staring at the smoking pistol. I lunge for my knives; he throws the gun and swings the sword. The blade bites into the table, catching my sleeve and tearing the shirt. I tear away as he draws it back, the shirt coming apart along the tear. I shrug out of it. He advances, swinging wildly. I dodge and block with the knives. He is skilled, but filled with fury, which dulls his movements. The wine cannot be helping him. Compared to my few swallows, he appears to have drunk a bottle and a half. It shows in his footwork. And his swings. The sword punches through the table and barrels, breaks glass and porcelain. He advances mercilessly, his swings tightening, falling into a form. Much more dangerous.

As his sword flashes back and forth, I lose the pattern. He swings, and I block the other way. The blade cuts deep into my arm, blood oozing from the wound. He pulls it back in a spray of blood. He steps, twirls and is suddenly right on me. The blade is pushed against my crossed knives, the edge bearing down on my throat. His superior weight and position are pushing the blade closer and closer, the edge bearing closer and closer to my neck. The board I'm against suddenly snaps, and we both fall to the ground. Fortunately for him, he keeps his position, and gains more of an advantage. I can feel the blade against my neck, my skin dipping under the edge. It's nicked and dulled at parts. Used blade. My skin breaks under the edge, a thin trickle running down the side of my neck.

BOOM!

A sudden bang sounds. The boy keels over, his strength gone. Lucky. The pistol is smoking where he threw it, the opposite wall pocked from the shot. It's a misfire- one that saved my life. The shot pierced his gut and punched out his ribs. Bone fragments are all over me. I shove him off and stand clumsily. Eight for eight. I'm bleeding from my arm and neck. I've got a few more splinters and cuts from debris. My face is bruised badly. Split lip, black eye I catch my reflection on a serving platter. I'm not pretty. Not anymore, if I ever was. I look over at the bound girl. The dagger I had missed earlier had found a mark after all. It was impaled in her chest. A clean, quick death. I prayed for her spirit momentarily. I was damned by my actions, but maybe she wasn't. Maybe it'll clean some red from my ledger. I grabbed a cloth, dipped it in the spilled wine. There wasn't time to boil it. It would have to do. I wrapped it on my arm, hissing as it stung. Hopefully it would hold. I splashed more on my hands, then rubbed the cuts and tried to pull the splinters and fragments out. I dug around, found a change of clothes. I ate a quick meal of the spared food, and then stripped the bodies of anything valuable or necessary. I organized it under one of the windows, laid it out based on practicality in keeping it. A distant clock boomed, and light spilled form the window. It was dawn already! I had to run for Master Powell's. He threatened me with losing my position if I was late! Quickly, I stuffed the bodies in the barrels. Some of them were unconscious, some were dead. It didn't matter. They were dumped into a cask, arms and legs broken to make them fit. Finally, I had all nine bodies stuffed in barrels. I washed my arms of the blood and shimmied out the window, down to the street. As I ran past a shop window, I saw my reflection. I didn't look good, but I could get away with it. Claim a pub brawl. I would be fine.

I arrived at the master's shop, barely on time.

"Cutting it close today, are we?" He asked, looking at me suspiciously. "I see your breakfast fought back too." I blushed, which only made the bruising look worse.

"There was a brawl at the pub. Sorry I'm late." I explained, hoping he'd buy the story.

"You're not late yet. Get on inside, start the forge."

"Yes master."

"Quickly!" he added. I got the coals started, and I placed his favorite tools out on the bench. I poured water into the cooling trough, and stepped to the bellows. We settled back into rhythm. Up, down, up, down, up, down, up- My stomach seized up on the pull, and I felt myself go cold. My vision tunneled. Up, down, up, down, up, down, up- I could feel my body slipping away. I saw rather than felt that it fell back onto the coals. I looked down. The top of my breeches and the bottom half of my shirt were stained crimson. My head rolled back.

"Oh, girlie, what've you done this time?" Powell mused, crouching in front of, me and pulling up the shirt to see the damage. As my vision further darkened, I noticed that the blasting jelly was gone. The tube was there, but unsealed. Curious…


	2. Shoals

I first recalled waking up in a dark space, closed in by cloth. Someone held their hand over my mouth and nose. Their voices were dulled and murmured.

The second time it sounded like hymns, like a church. Specifically, the one nearby on Seventh and Twenty-First Street. Mt recollection is longer, but I still couldn't move, nor does the memory make sense. Sounds came in brief points with no movement, movement came in jointed and fragmented jumps. It didn't make sense. I soon fell back asleep? Or blacked out.

Finally, I woke cohesively. It was still dark, still smelly. There was a sheet over me, I was no longer in my clothes from the forge. Instead, I was in a flimsy, but higher quality, nightgown. It was not restrictive like most fashions, but was quite loose. Beneath I could feel that my wounds had been wrapped better. The cloth looked mostly clean, but there was residual red on the edges where it wrapped around my stomach. I stood unsteadily, the floor rocking beneath me. Using the bed as support once I noticed it was bolted to the wall, strange that, I made my way to the door. It was best to find out who had taken me in, and if I had to kill them, or merely let them be.

If they could be trusted to keep my secret, then I suppose they would be allowed to live. Precious few had my secret, even fewer since the end of the crew. Living in such tight conditions, there was absolutely no way to keep a secret like that. Someone was bound to know. It was almost as impossible as hiding something like that on a ship. Still, no benefactor had revealed themselves yet.

I made my way to the door, reaching for the handle with a shaking hand. The worn knob was poorly carved, catching and poking all over my hand. As I swayed for a moment, letting my head clear, I realized that it may be a brilliant design. If I was indeed on a ship, then a handle would need to be awkward to ensure it could be turned no matter the conditions. Rain, snow, ice, oil, sweat, blood, nothing should be able to stop the turning of this monstrosity. It was an entirely new field, purposefully designed to be unwieldy, as to be useable under any circumstance. No weather, angry girls, wives, or page boys, no animals or pranks could stop you. Door without hinges, hollow frames of doors, knobs that gripped you, the possibilities were limitless!

I tried turning the knob, but it was stopped form the outside. More aptly, the knob worked fine, the door was only jammed. I was trapped. My mind soon leapt to conclusions, from kidnapping, to slavery, to sexual assault, to revenge planning. I returned to sitting on the bed to alleviate the pounding in my temples. Whatever had happened had drastically impacted my health. I looked around the cabin for a weapon of some sort. Even if my captors were friendly, it never hurt to have a weapon on yourself. You never knew when it was useful. Wild beast attacks were on the rise, thieves and robbers roamed the streets, and lewd men seemed to be everywhere. Not to mention, that if we were indeed on a ship, then the primary drink was alcoholic, which any bartender could tell you is not a good thing.

I spotted a letter opener on a desk, which I seized and tucked into my dressings. Next, was a length of chord that hung from a post on the wall behind the desk, which I wrapped around one hand and held loosely in the other. It was an improvised garrote, but an effective one. Gang life did bring its own set of skills.

Suddenly, the door flew open. Two struggling men fell in, both holding swords. From the looks of things, they were involved in some sort of mutiny. While they were distracted, I clocked one with a tankard, and kicked the other under the chin. There was no need to leave anything to chance. My nightdress whipped around my ankles as I crept out. I had pilfered one of the swords form the men. It was not as light as I was used to, but it would do for now.

Smoke clouded the deck. The stench of gunpower was everywhere, as well as splinters. Through the fog or smoke, I could hear men fighting, but I couldn't see them. I crept along slowly, sword held in front of me. Down up the stairs, carefully around the edge of the center rise. On the next set of stairs were three more combatants, locked in mortal combat. The lone fighter was outmatched, he clearly lacked the skill the other two had. They were toying with him, leaving openings they could have used to end the fight. I quickly had to take a side. There was no time, they would notice me within seconds. Quickly, I lunged forward, swinging the sword at one. Somehow, he noticed my arrival. He blocked my crude stroke, flicking his saber back at me. I yelped, leaping to the side and dropping my own sword.

He laughed, "Is that the best you have girlie?" His sword by his side, he stepped down the stair, and raised a hand to feel me. No matter his intentions, I reacted. I grabbed his wrist and yanked him forward, jumping on the rail, and landing behind him. I wrapped the chord around him neck after he gasped hitting his head on the rail. He struggled at first, but it wasn't long before his movement grew too weak. He collapsed on the deck of the ship, propped on the railway. I turned to the other pair of swordsmen. My duelists' friend was shouting at me. The lapse of attention cost him, as he was ruin through by the other duelist. I started to relax, but the final swordsman screamed something at me and swung for my head.

I dropped to the stairs, scrambling down them as he pursued me, novicely pulping the deck around me again and again. My fumbling hands found something to use, and I threw a handful of wood shards at him. He cursed in some language, lowering his guard at the unexpected attack. Quick as a snake, I grabbed the letter opener and stabbed it into his hand. He dropped his sword, which I ignored. Full of rage and anger, I stood sharply, gaining my feet and dragging the blade up his entire arm. As he took the breath to scream, I plunged the knife into his open mouth, down his throat. He stumbled away, clawing at his throat and coughing up blood.

Suddenly, something caught me from behind and lifted me up. I flew skirt over heels into the air in a way humans were never meant to do. Down below, I caught glimpses of fire. We were at sea, that was true. There were two ships locked in combat. Were, I should say. Neither had disengaged when one's magazine went up. The explosion caught the others too. All I could see was open water; there was no sight of land. My upward momentum slowed, and I found myself falling into the same blue I had been staring at only a moment before. There was a mighty thwack. It felt like hitting the floor after falling two stories. It hurt. For the second time in as many conscious days, I dropped away from the world of the living.

The tug came from back home, a land I had not visited in many years. Most wars were fought on land nowadays, and sea deaths that required my presence were rare. I was chosen for pirates only. No other groups had the same claim to my services. I did not enjoy my services, but they were necessary. And so we went.

The true need was south of my homeland. It was off the coast of an African colony. Two ships were locked in combat. At the almost exact moment of my arrival, the ships exploded. It appeared they could not handle the awesome that was the undead captain William Turner, Jr. I sent the men out to collect the sailors. It was a nasty business. I eyes the wreckage for anything for Elizabeth. This was England. They did get things well before the colonies did. There was nothing of value to my eye, and I settled in to wait for the crew. It wasn't long before the first boats were returning. Many of the men we retrieved swore allegiance to their god, and thus were returned to their resting places. Precious few volunteered to serve. A few tried to threaten or bargain, and they too were returned. By the fourth ship, I was almost ready to leave things to my boson. Then, he was pulled aboard. He was not like the others. He was not a sailor. He was someone I knew. He was a blacksmith's apprentice. Or, he was when I left.

"Is that you, Powell?" I asked, nudging my crew aside.

"Little William? Could it be?" He replied, looking closer at me.

"In the flesh. Not quite living, mind you, but I am here." I replied, showing off my body for inspection.

"But, how're you still young?" He puzzled.

"It hasn't been that long, Pow. But, I am outside of time. I've been tasked with ferrying the souls of pirates to the other side. For my service, I can live forever, with a few strings attached." I answered. He was an old friend, and more importantly, a devout catholic. He would not be spreading tales to anyone in a few minutes.

"Say no more, I shant sully my mind with heathen thoughts. Have you seen Conway yet?" I brought her out here to keep her out form the law back home." He said.

I frowned. Conway. The name seemed familiar. Why did I know it? "I can't say I have. But, he'll turn up. He one of yours?" I promised.

"Yea, I made my mastery. E's my apprentice now. Keeps er outta trouble. Mostly." He boasted.

"Do you mind explaining this to me, just for the record?" I asked.

"Uh, yeah. I suppose it is my fault. Conway got into some trouble with a gang back in jolly ole England. They stole 'er stuff, and then they died. E' was being investigated, and was wounded, so's I booked passage outta town. Next I know, I'm under investigation on fraud. I run too, catch a bunk on the same ship. We sail out. Next I know, there's pirates boarding us. We tried to fight, but the magazine blew us all away."

"I see. Jack would be impressed." I say thoughtfully.

"Jack?" He asks.

"It's no matter." I say, waving it aside, "Now I guess your heavenly father awaits you?"

"Time to see if me name's in the good book or not." He adds. I motion the crew, and they step aside. "Good seeing you, Will." He says, leaping form the ship's deck. He vanishes before hitting the water. My curiosity piqued, I leave orders to wake me if this 'Conway' is found, and retreat to my cabin. All this news has old feelings stirring up. Bad memories.


End file.
